But he was already gone. The door was left swinging gently behind him.
I stood frozen, the silence in the room suddenly deafening.
Hunter.
Who the hell was Hunter?
My knees nearly gave. I sat back on the edge of the bed, the letter’s words echoing endlessly in my mind.
You are the daughter of Maradona and Hunter.
My father’s name was Michael. Michael. The man who raised me. Who held me close when I had nightmares. Who died trying to protect me.
So who was this man called Hunter? Had my entire childhood been a lie?
I looked back down at the photo in my lap—the woman who called herself Maradona. Who called herself my mother.
I felt like I was slipping.
I pressed the heels of my hands to my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut.
Nothing made sense. My wolf was pacing in my chest. Nora w
